Terror at Night

From the heart of the jungle comes a savage cry of victory. This is Tarzan, Lord of the Jungle. From the black core of dark Africa, land of enchantment, mystery, and violence comes one of the most colorful figures of all time.

Transcribed from the immortal pen of Edgar Rice Burroughs, Tarzan, the bronzed white son of the jungle. And now in the very words of Mr. Burroughs, the story of terror at night. Several years had now passed since Tarzan's returned to his beloved jungle.

The mask of civilization had begun to slip from him, and once again he had become like the other denizens of the forest, suspicious of every strange scent, wary of the approach of aliens. An hour ago he had sensed the coming of white men, and had left his sea coast cabin taken to the trees.

Now he glared down as two rough-looking jungle-wearing intruders passed directly below him. They had many weeks' growth of beard on their faces, on the clothes they wore, which might And once the Navy uniforms were now tattered rags.

I tell you, mate, you've got a feeling someone's watching us. I relax, Pete, relax. They haven't followed us this far. Perhaps they have them, perhaps they haven't. It's getting me down, it is. Ah, I'm telling you to relax.

A fine fix we'd have been in. If I'd relax back there, and by this time we'd be, will the rest of them are now? Let's not... Let's not talk about what happened to the others, Pete.

I don't fancy talking about what happened to him any more than you do, Harry, but... Stop telling me to relax. I won't relax until we're out of this bloody jungle. Perhaps not even in. Okay, okay, so don't relax.